


The Vision

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle POV, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I legit only wrote this because I wanted to write the Empty House with the ineffable husbands so, M/M, Platonic Soulmates, for half of it, i guess?, if that sounds like your thing here it is!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: Crowley has been sleeping since 1816. In that time, Aziraphale has befriended noted author Arthur Conan Doyle, and now, in the year 1901, spends a significant portion of his life trying to persuade him to bring Sherlock Holmes back from the dead. He has no luck at all, however, until the Scotsman has a strange vision of a bookshop, an angel and a demon...





	The Vision

**Author's Note:**

> (why yes I do plan to write every hundred year nap fic in this fandom what of it)  
> This was possibly the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written, including Gardens & Libraries... you don’t need to have read the Empty House to follow, but you will catch some delicious references if you have. ;)

It was the year 1901. Her Majesty Queen Victoria had, after a reign second not even to that of her renowned feminine forebear Elizabeth, joined her husband (or perhaps not; Aziraphale wasn’t keeping up to date with heavenly gossip these days) in January, relinquishing the throne to her son Bertie – a menace incorrigible by all accounts. Aziraphale was of the opinion that he wouldn’t last long.

It was a shame, he thought, turning his commemorative teacup about in his soft hands, that Crowley hadn’t been around to witness the reign of one of the most formidable and virulent colonists the world had ever seen. He might have taken some joy in it, being a demon... Being a singularly _workshy_ demon, he might have rejoiced that the humans were managing quite well on their own. He might have felt some pride, being the Serpent, the original tempter, that a woman had, in spite of their unwarranted subjugation in human society, possessed the power to act as she had done.

But the Victorian era was over, and Crowley had slept through it.

The angel sighed heavily, before shaking himself a little and levering himself upright from his place leant against the stove. He adjusted his waistcoat fastidiously, before pulling an unwound watch from his pocket.

He expected, of course, that it would keep time quite as well as the sundials always had, and so it obliged. It read twenty minutes past twelve in the afternoon. Ten minutes before his scheduled bi-weekly* luncheon with Arthur. Perhaps this time he might find himself in luck with the stubborn Scotsman; he most evidently had no inkling of the importance which his detective – his Sherlock Holmes – held in the hearts of the nation.

And most importantly of Aziraphale. One needed a decent serial to keep one occupied.

[*And that had most certainly been an introduction of Crowley’s: did it mean twice in a week? once every two weeks? One never knew. English was a fascinating little language for requiring twice the number of words simply to explain what you meant in the first instance. In Aziraphale’s case, he meant once every fortnight.]

***

Arthur Conan Doyle was waiting, he was not ashamed to admit, somewhat impatiently in the opulent dining area of the Langham hotel, snapping his watch shut for the third time in four minutes.

He found Fell a fascinating conversationalist, well-versed in as many areas as he himself – the occult, the mysterious, medicine and war, history of seemingly any era... he found their discussions both stimulating and pleasurable. They had met back in 1885, a couple of years prior to his publishing the dreaded novel which made his name a household one and set him firmly on an eternal path of literary stagnation.

Not that he wasn’t _grateful_ to Ward Lock & Co, to the great British public for their accolades and praise, to Fell for his incessant encouragement, but he felt keenly that he had more to give, in a different format, with different characters, in different places and times... and so, for the last eight or so years, that was exactly what he had endeavoured to do.

But the detective haunted him like an impossibly persistent ghost. Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of this draft, or that case, or that letter from his publisher beseeching him to return to the realms of the crime serial and cast off the shackles of the novel.

And Fell, for all his intriguing anecdotes and personable manner, was no exception to this rule. Indeed, barely a meeting could pass but he would enjoin him to take arms once again and revive the wretch.

No, he would not. He had to forge his own path, free from the shackles of Sherlock Holmes, and soar unencumbered among the higher echelons of the novel, of the macabre and the scientific.

“My dear Conan Doyle, I prostrate myself before you!” The tones of his long-awaited dinner companion drifted through the golden air like smooth honey, or perhaps like sharp, tinkling silver. He never could pin down the other man despite their many years of acquaintance, his personality mercurial, yet somehow constant withal.

He rose a little, nodded and smiled briefly, clasping the other’s hand and indicating the usual seat opposite. Fell hadn’t finished, however, and continued-

“It was unpardonably rude of me, I grant you, though I’m afraid I hadn’t anticipated my lateness or I should have wired on ahead...” – he brushed a stray golden curl hurriedly into place, smiling sheepishly – “Tell me, how goes your work? Are you still engaged with your vexed Brigadier?”

And so began a spirited discussion, meandering aimlessly though his own writing, his peers’ writing, the state of the nation, the development of the Boer War, three different eras of history across four continents, the Irish issue, the upcoming Glasgow Exhibition, before ending, as ever, at the by-now-anticipated question:

“And what of our dear Holmes, my good man?” Fell’s eye glittered. “Have we the pleasure of seeing him rise once again to reacquaint himself with the deepest depths of the nation’s hearts?”

Conan Doyle smiled drily (as indeed he did most things) and shook his head. “I’m afraid I must again disappoint – the Brigadier has been consuming a good portion of my time of late... Holmes remains a dead man yet.”

Fell grinned unexpectedly. “Ah, but I cling to that ‘yet’, dear boy. We can but hope, after all. And a little hope is better than no hope at all.” He emptied his glass of port.

The author wasn’t convinced that his companion was still talking about his writing.

***

Later that same day, when the night had begun drawing close and a sharp chill crept inexorably along the eaves, dripping down into the buildings below and working its way into the very walls, Arthur Conan Doyle was to be found in his drawing-room. He was smoking, as was his wont at this hour, and gazed into the fire, evening paper forgotten, as he contemplated again the conversation of earlier that day.

With a new monarch on the throne, a new century only beginning to burst forth, the way was _forward_ , surely – not back into the murky depths of the ‘80s. Fell was most evidently a learned man, but all men have their vices, and it seemed he suffered from too close a fondness for this – this _shallow, dull_ creature Holmes.

No, thought the smoker, mired by now in a purplish haze, the way was forward. Forward into scientific discovery, into a bright new Holmes-less century.

Presently, he slept. And given that Arthur Conan Doyle was, among many other things, a clairvoyant, he dreamed of the future. And the future, though he knew it not, ran thus:

***

It was 1902. Aziraphale was quite pleased with himself, and took the liberty of twirling his cane nonchalantly as he wandered through Soho. The latest Sherlock Holmes serial, ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’ had just concluded its run in the Strand, and suffice it to say that none of his friend’s talent had escaped him during his brief sojourn to pastures new. He was distinctly... _pleased_ (not proud, of course; pride was a sin – and in any case he couldn’t even let Crowley have the credit, blasted layabout that he was), and felt no little pleasure in having influenced Conan Doyle’s decision to take up the pen of Dr Watson once more.

Admittedly, Holmes was still, in truth, dead, but he would take a win where he could.

“Might I int’rest you in the word of the Lord, sir?” A ragged youth leered at him in a distinctly unholy manner as he passed the intersection of Old Compton Street and Greek Street.

Aziraphale, startled from his musings, scurried away as fast as he could, shooting a nervous glance over his shoulder. Street hawkers had been Crowley’s idea, and these days they had taken on a life of their own and would try to indoctrinate you into anything – from religious sects, to a new restaurant open across the way, to, on one memorable occasion, “ _The_ most extravagant funereal services you’ll never see, guv!” (He strongly suspected this last was not in good faith, however.)

Unsolicited conversation for no obvious material gain on the part of either party made Aziraphale nervous; it trod that thin dividing line between Good and Evil which felt less like a line and more like a tightrope... and he had _quite_ enough problems in that department already.

So enwrapped in these existential thoughts was he that he failed to notice the considerable pile-up materialised at the next junction – the junction, in fact, separating him from the respite of his bookshop. He stopped dead in the middle of the road and sighed melodramatically, craning his neck to peer over the three horses (which, despite all attempts at cajolement, had gathered together like the proprietors of a drinking establishment at around 3am, and would not be shifted) and their accompanying hansoms blocking the street.

Seeing no way through the mess, he began edging towards the row of shop fronts, with the intention of perhaps miracling the way clear from a more advantageous viewpoint. As he was not paying attention to where he was stepping, then, it was little surprise when he edged straight into an elderly gentleman, clad not unfashionably, but in clothes most obviously well-worn, and knocked from his arms a stack of some half-dozen books.

Together they stared dumbly at the fallen cargo in the dirt, before Aziraphale dove for the ground, gabbling apologies as he surreptitiously miracled the worst of the street filth from the covers (meaning that they were nearly pristine when he handed them back). What sacrilege! What carelessness! What cruelty to such poor defenceless tomes! They may be miracled clean, but the dirt, he knew, would always be there, deep down like a wound. He was mortified.

The owner of the books appeared to be of the same mind, for he snatched the books back from the angel with a bitter downturn to his mouth, and sidled off as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

Aziraphale stared after him hopelessly, feeling rather less chipper than he had a minute ago. Looking back at the chaos of the street before him, he took the long route home.

***

He had not been back at his shop five minutes before the doorbell tinkled obnoxiously. _Typical_ , he thought. _Five minutes earlier and I would have missed them._ He sighed, and looked up wearily. Was it too much to ask that a man-shaped being be left in peace with his books?

He blinked. The fellow now perusing those marginally less coveted treasures near the door was none other than the elderly gentleman he had inadvertently upset earlier. He supposed, given his obvious regard for books, he may have stumbled across Aziraphale’s bookshop by chance, but it was a strange happenstance indeed that it should be on the very same day. He narrowed his eyes a little and returned to the afternoon paper. In superscript on the top right hand side, it read _May 25 th, 1895_.

Presently, the customer (Aziraphale shuddered delicately at the thought) wound his way over to the partially-shadowed corner in which the angel was sat; the gas hadn’t yet been lit, Aziraphale not exactly needing artificial light.

“I imagine my turning up here was something of a shock,” he began, his voice a garbled whisper with just a hint of Scots around the edges. “I’m afraid to say I followed you; I realised in short order that I had been most ungracious towards you, given that my books were _completely_ unharmed.”

Something about that ‘completely’ set off a tiny alarm bell in Aziraphale’s mind, and he promptly arranged four different scenarios which might explain this occurrence to the inquisitive.

“Well,” he smiled at the shadowy figure with benign grace, “I consider no harm done, for my part. I was obliged by my own carelessness to attempt to right the situation; you owe me nothing, sir.” _Apart from perhaps the vacating of my bookshop._

“I am glad to hear that, Mr Fell – your name was over the door, of course – and so I wondered if such a connoisseur of the humble page as yourself-”

 _Here we go,_ thought Aziraphale dejectedly-

“-might be persuaded to add to his collection? As you see I have here-” he withdrew from his coat an especially battered tome, “A First Folio which, you will see, is quite unlike any of those you currently possess.” He gestured encouragingly to the offending shelf, and Aziraphale clambered from his seat to peer over at it, more inclined to play along now that the man showed no interest in a _purchase_.

When he turned back, the elderly bookseller had gone. In his place stood a lean, elegant man, pointed of feature and golden of eye, who grinned broadly and spread his arms wide.

“Well, angel – I trust that age doth not wither not cussstom stale my infinite variety?” Crowley was partly in shadow still, but Aziraphale could just _read_ the smirk in his voice. Or was that uncertainty? Blasted serpent.

Aziraphale’s face contorted into a paroxysm of wrath (he couldn’t help himself, although he knew he ought to resist) in an instant, blue eyes flashing. Crowley winced and backed away a little, though his arms remained outstretched, if a little less confidently.

Near-apoplectic with rage and shock, the angel took two unsteady, incensed steps towards his visitor – before darkness borne of sheer unbridled fury descended upon him, and he collapsed into Crowley’s waiting arms.

***

He awoke upon the divan in the back room, a bottle of wine upon the occasional table that he _knew_ he hadn’t owned , and two glasses which he was fairly certain he did.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley was saying, “I never thought- I thought you might... be amused. I mean, I was awake in any case, so I thought ‘Why not give him a scene to remember?’ You know, I was quite proud of the touch with the books-” He cut himself off and looked down at the floor. “I see now I was... unnecessarily dramatic. I’m sorry, angel. But we- we’re here now, aren’t we? It’s all right now?”

He looked so pathetically hopeful, golden eyes for once freed from their dark prison, that Aziraphale was sorely tempted to brush it all under the carpet. What was eighty-five years to them? Chicken-scratchings on the sundial of time. Nothing at all. And they really did have so much to catch up on.

“I hate you.” He threw an arm over his eyes and sighed. “You complete and utter bastard.”

Crowley licked his lips, forked tongue flickering in the air. “Understandable.”

Aziraphale sighed again, but there was no malice in it. “Well, I suppose I’d better get this over with. Come on.” He opened his arms as well as he could while prostrated on the divan, echoing Crowley’s earlier effort, but making no attempt to rearrange himself into a seated position.

He regarded the demon’s slightly flabbergasted expression with head akimbo, his lips twitching briefly with wry amusement. “What, you don’t expect me to _move_ , do you? I have had a _terrible_ shock; my arch-enemy has once more awoken to imperil this world, and more importantly didn’t even bother to _tell_ me he’d be out for a _century_.” He closed his eyes, leaving his arms where they were. “I am most certainly not moving.”

There was brief silence.

“And that’s it?” asked Crowley in mild confusion, finally forcing his limbs to function normally and slithering onto the angel-filled divan.  

“Oh, I imagine more will come later, my dear,” Aziraphale said lightly, the merest hint of steel in his tone.

Crowley swallowed, just restraining a wince, and burrowed into the angel’s arms. “Mm. Warm.”

“I ought to withhold privileges, you... serpent.”

“Mm. No.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, unseen.

Minutes passed. Then:

“So, what have I missed?”

***

The scene faded, before reconstituting into one almost identical – the only difference being the positions of the persons occupying the cluttered little room. They were each draped inelegantly over the divan, the angel lounging over one plush armrest while the demon sat cross-legged facing him, gesticulating wildly.

Both were exceedingly drunk.

Crowley was talking, though it could not be said truthfully that he was _communicating._

“It’sssss... angel, you ssee, it’s like thisss, it’s-” he broke off, edged closer to Aziraphale conspiratorially, prompting the angel to lean forward in reponse. “That is to sssay that- well, angel, I-”

“Yes?” Aziraphale asked rather impatiently and not a little giddily, his mind a pleasant haze of glittering gold and soft black; black so soft you could just gather it up, run it gently through your hands, press it revere-

“I- angel, I lo-”

***

Arthur Conan Doyle awoke with a start, blinking in the grey light, a little disoriented as he always was after such a dream. Equally, however, but little remained of the substance of that dream – save a few snippets – a disguise here, a quip there – and in time, say, oh, two years, those snippets would coalesce into the triumphant return of Sherlock Holmes.

And on that day, somewhere in a small out-of-the-way bookshop in Soho, in October of 1903, an angel would gleefully point out the familiar scenes to a demon curled under one arm; a demon smiling so broadly that it seemed he might never get the chance to do so again.

But he would.

They had all the time in the world to devote to the interesting little humans which the complex life of London so plentifully provided– and to each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! It's so gen it's not even funny, but I had to shoehorn in a love confession somehow... hope you enjoyed! Comments are my main form of sustenance if you did ;)


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